The Last Invitation (74)

“I was looking right at it. Sorry!” Her voice was too high and tight. Jessa could hear it and fought to modulate it. “I think reading about murderers and pedophiles scrambled my brain.”

“That’s understandable. The fact patterns are meant to have an impact. We’ll look at a few more with less egregious behavior and see what your thoughts are.” Retta smiled. “May I have my chair?”

“Right. Sorry . . . again.” Jessa stepped out from behind the desk, taking the time to look around, searching for the stupid notebook.

By the time she got back to her chair, her mind had switched gears. She’d put it back in the drawer. She’d never picked it up or moved it around. She had not screwed up.

But she knew none of that was true. She’d had it in her hand and then—

“Do you need a longer break?” Retta asked.

“I’m good.” Scattered and a little panicked, but otherwise . . . not okay. At least Jessa thought her voice sounded more natural that time.

“I need your focus, Jessa. These matters are too important.”

“You have it.” Her foot hit on something. She ran the bottom of her shoe over the lump a few times and heard what sounded like a crinkle. She made a quick lunge for her coffee cup and banged it against the desk to cover the paper sound.

“Why are you nervous?” Retta used her full judge voice on that question.

“You said we were switching to different scenarios. I’m just getting ready for the change.” She trapped the lump under the toe of her shoe and dragged it toward her.

“The nonegregious cases are the most difficult in some ways. They can be hard to assess, but the decisions need to be as grounded and justified as with harder fact cases.”

“That makes sense.” Jessa looked down and spied the crumpled notebook and put her whole foot over it to hide it. “But do cases like, let’s say, business agreements or general arguments require a look from the group?”

“We don’t deal with business disagreements or petty squabbling.” Retta stared at Jessa for a few extra disquieting seconds. “Ever.”

Another confirmation about Baines that pointed to Gabby being wrong. Jessa refused to ask a more direct question. She was taking enough chances.

She dropped the legal pad Retta had given her to take notes in the room only. One slip and Jessa grabbed the notebook, tucking it between the cardboard back and the yellow pages of the pad before sitting up and securing it on her lap.

The adrenaline pinging inside her refused to stop. Her breath rushed out, and she had to gulp a few times to keep from visibly panting. “Maybe I should use the bathroom before we start again.”

“Of course.” Retta finally looked away, but only for a second. “The notepad stays here.”

“Sure.” Jessa was halfway up, balancing the notepad and the hidden notebook, and a load of misfiring nerves. “Do you need more coffee?”

Retta tipped her mug to peek inside, and Jessa jumped on the opportunity to fix her mess. She slid the small notebook into her pocket. She’d secure it under her clothing in the bathroom, but for now keeping a hand over it should hide the extra bulk.

Retta shook her head. “I’m still good.”

“Excellent.” Between the inane chatter and the intense fear of being found out, Jessa’s muscles had tightened with tension. She waited for a wave of exhaustion to hit her.

“And Jessa?”

Shit. Jessa turned around right at the doorway to the hallway. So close to freedom. “Yeah?”

“We haven’t discussed this, but it should be clear. Stay away from Gabby Fielding and her ridiculous theories about Baines’s death.”

Jessa intended to do exactly that . . . very soon. “Done.”





Chapter Sixty-Five

Gabby




“What are you talking about?” Liam’s voice sounded more stunned than angry.

Gabby knew that would flip after a few minutes of explanation. But she needed time. Spitting out a family-destroying secret like this took preparation. She’d had three years, but since she’d never intended to tell she wasn’t ready. “Can we sit down?”

“No.”

Okay, fair. “I’m going to back up so that you can understand all of it.”

“I don’t care how you tell me, just tell me because right now I don’t know if I should kick you out of my house or take you somewhere for therapeutic help.”

She tried to remember how to breathe. “You think I’m making it up.”

“I fear you’ve had some sort of break.”

“Look at me.” He hadn’t looked anywhere else, but that’s not what she meant, and she thought he understood. “Do I look unhinged or out of control?”

“Just tell me.”

A calmness she’d never expected fell over her. She’d spent years running from this topic, burying it, and trying to pretend it away. She’d assumed if she was ever forced to tell, the impact would be the equivalent of a crash landing. Chaotic and fumbling, racing and terrifying resignation.

“Baines always talked a good game about becoming a millionaire and getting invited to the right parties. The drive started out as wanting to be in a place where we didn’t have to decide between heat and food on a weekly basis, but it grew into something very different,” she said, trying to lay a foundation.